"You think Calamity Jane there is for rent? Who would?"
For once, Raul's actually wishing that Boone had tagged along; the uncharismatic bastard doesn't so much drink as commit self-destruct by bottle, and even as much as Charlie drives him up the wall, that little quip would have been enough to get him involved and end this burgeoning shitshow. One good look at that kind of face with that beret riding atop it, scarlet as a bloody sunrise, and whatever nuggets these three are trying to pass off as their cojones would shrivel up to their lungs. Hell, even Arcade would be useful at this point, his verbose prattle could wrap just about any idiot around his little finger, or Cass and her...well, honestly, it's probably a good thing she's not here. They don't even have the dog or the flying toaster tonight. It's just him and Charlie, and as intimidating pairs go, a rumpled, rotted Petro-Chico reject and a gangly, too-tall cowgirl tomboy aren't topping the list.
Charlie decides to saddle up and join the conversation. "This is a private party, fellas."
The second leers. "Oh? Who's payin' for who?"
The first snorts and laughs, elbowing him. "Who's pitying who, you mean."
For whatever reason, this finally gets her dander up, and it's damn high with the way she starts cursing. "Why don't you stuff your shriveled dicks up your shitholes and fuck yourselves off out of here."
"Why don't you start putting on a show."
Three or four shots ping off the floor around his feet before he or Charlie realize he's being shot at, the silenced .22s not making much more than a whispered 'thup!' as they fire. Both of them jump up and back, sending chairs and glassware flying, which seems to be a bit more in line with the excitment Eames was looking for.
"That's it, dance!"
He gets a chummy nudge in the arm. "See? I told you paying that guy out front extra for these would be worth it."
Charlie tries her diplomatic schtick, although it's probably too little, too late now. "Now boys, you want to consider what it is you're doing. I really don't think the brass at McCarran is going to be happy you're trying to peg one of the Courier's friends full of holes."
"Who the fuck cares if the shuffler knows a damn postman?"
Christ. They're really new. Raul glances back to Charlie, whose face has gone alarmingly blank, and he wonders if she's thinking what he's thinking; that nobody, aside from whatever poor slob here would have to clean up the mess, is going to bat an eye at three rowdy troopers killing a ghoul. Certainly not the NCR. Camp Searchlight proved that.
Raul's mind flips into overdrive, searching endless memories of gunfights and bar brawls for any good way out of this mess, coming up dry every time. They're too damn drunk to take a hack at it, too damn drunk to have managed anything through the front door past whatever pig-stickers Charlie might have managed to squirrel away. He's a gunslinger without a gun and she's a knife fighter with no chance of getting in range and a perception problem so wide that it takes a scattergun for her to hit anyone more than five feet away. There's got to be something he can do for her.
Charlie looks at him, looks at them, then suddenly puts her arms akimbo, trilling out a laugh. "Well, boys. You come to the Strip, you really need to learn how to ask the right way. I'll let it slide this time." She jerks her sleeve up and starts jabbing at her Pip-Boy. The three troopers look confused. Raul sideyes her like mad. "You want a dance, I'll give you a gods-damned dance!"
Right. She's drunk. She's catastrophically drunk, apparently, and this, Raul thinks, is possibly the worst fucking time to realize he has no idea just what type of drunk she is.
"Boss-"
She retrieves one of the chairs and plops it behind him, hissing. "Just sit the hell down and play along, Raul."
"But-" Charlie snaps her leg up and out as he tries to get up, and suddenly he's staring down a mile of leathered thigh, the crook of her knee squeezing against his shoulder to hold him still as she punches one last button on the Pip-Boy and an all too familar song starts pouring out of it. It does nothing to drown out the hooting that's started up behind her.
Down in Mexico 2/?
"You think Calamity Jane there is for rent? Who would?"
For once, Raul's actually wishing that Boone had tagged along; the uncharismatic bastard doesn't so much drink as commit self-destruct by bottle, and even as much as Charlie drives him up the wall, that little quip would have been enough to get him involved and end this burgeoning shitshow. One good look at that kind of face with that beret riding atop it, scarlet as a bloody sunrise, and whatever nuggets these three are trying to pass off as their cojones would shrivel up to their lungs. Hell, even Arcade would be useful at this point, his verbose prattle could wrap just about any idiot around his little finger, or Cass and her...well, honestly, it's probably a good thing she's not here. They don't even have the dog or the flying toaster tonight. It's just him and Charlie, and as intimidating pairs go, a rumpled, rotted Petro-Chico reject and a gangly, too-tall cowgirl tomboy aren't topping the list.
Charlie decides to saddle up and join the conversation. "This is a private party, fellas."
The second leers. "Oh? Who's payin' for who?"
The first snorts and laughs, elbowing him. "Who's pitying who, you mean."
For whatever reason, this finally gets her dander up, and it's damn high with the way she starts cursing. "Why don't you stuff your shriveled dicks up your shitholes and fuck yourselves off out of here."
"Why don't you start putting on a show."
Three or four shots ping off the floor around his feet before he or Charlie realize he's being shot at, the silenced .22s not making much more than a whispered 'thup!' as they fire. Both of them jump up and back, sending chairs and glassware flying, which seems to be a bit more in line with the excitment Eames was looking for.
"That's it, dance!"
He gets a chummy nudge in the arm. "See? I told you paying that guy out front extra for these would be worth it."
Charlie tries her diplomatic schtick, although it's probably too little, too late now. "Now boys, you want to consider what it is you're doing. I really don't think the brass at McCarran is going to be happy you're trying to peg one of the Courier's friends full of holes."
"Who the fuck cares if the shuffler knows a damn postman?"
Christ. They're really new. Raul glances back to Charlie, whose face has gone alarmingly blank, and he wonders if she's thinking what he's thinking; that nobody, aside from whatever poor slob here would have to clean up the mess, is going to bat an eye at three rowdy troopers killing a ghoul. Certainly not the NCR. Camp Searchlight proved that.
Raul's mind flips into overdrive, searching endless memories of gunfights and bar brawls for any good way out of this mess, coming up dry every time. They're too damn drunk to take a hack at it, too damn drunk to have managed anything through the front door past whatever pig-stickers Charlie might have managed to squirrel away. He's a gunslinger without a gun and she's a knife fighter with no chance of getting in range and a perception problem so wide that it takes a scattergun for her to hit anyone more than five feet away. There's got to be something he can do for her.
Charlie looks at him, looks at them, then suddenly puts her arms akimbo, trilling out a laugh. "Well, boys. You come to the Strip, you really need to learn how to ask the right way. I'll let it slide this time." She jerks her sleeve up and starts jabbing at her Pip-Boy. The three troopers look confused. Raul sideyes her like mad. "You want a dance, I'll give you a gods-damned dance!"
Right. She's drunk. She's catastrophically drunk, apparently, and this, Raul thinks, is possibly the worst fucking time to realize he has no idea just what type of drunk she is.
"Boss-"
She retrieves one of the chairs and plops it behind him, hissing. "Just sit the hell down and play along, Raul."
"But-" Charlie snaps her leg up and out as he tries to get up, and suddenly he's staring down a mile of leathered thigh, the crook of her knee squeezing against his shoulder to hold him still as she punches one last button on the Pip-Boy and an all too familar song starts pouring out of it. It does nothing to drown out the hooting that's started up behind her.